


Post Traumatic Stress Drabbles

by Opowossum



Category: Eddsworld - All Media Types
Genre: Anorexia, Assault, Binge Drinking, Bulimia, Drabble, Eating Disorders, Edgy, F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, Other, PTSD, Self-Harm, Trauma, Violence, ahaha don’t kill yourself, dubcon, just generally bad sad shit, self-hate, youre too sexy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-17
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22768267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Opowossum/pseuds/Opowossum
Summary: Hi what’s up this is just a generally bad box of sad things. Second person POV a lot. Trauma based drabbles ahoy. Requests welcome ig. I haven’t written in years.
Relationships: Edd/Matt/Tom/Tord (Eddsworld), Edd/Tom (Eddsworld), Edd/Tord (Eddsworld), Matt/Tom (Eddsworld), Patryck/Paul (Eddsworld), Patryck/Tord (Eddsworld), Tom/Tord (Eddsworld)
Kudos: 42





	1. I’m having sex with a ghost

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t written in ages haha sorry this might be...shit

“Filthy.”

His voice is low, growling not like that of a dog, but of the treads of war tanks along the gravel of a schoolyard.

His knife drags along your skin, and you can’t help but shudder. You relish in your sickness. In the way the metal burns and your stomach twists. So horrendously pleasant and yet it makes you want to rip your ribs apart, to eviscerate yourself in a holy retribution for your sins.

As if anything about you could be holy now.

He grabs your jaw with his hand, this one just as icy and hard as the knife in his hand, and you nearly feel yourself gag as your mouth is forced open, soft pink lips parting with a struggling gasp you hate to feel torn from your lungs.

You realize his other hand is around your neck. It’s not just warm— it burns like your own self hatred. Hotter than the sun and scorching as the fires of hell.

You laugh, and he spits in your face, knocking you to the floor. Surprisingly, you find the tile cool, pleasant against the heat of your perpetually clammy skin. 

And yet, relief would always be just out of sight, wouldn’t it?

You feel a swift kick to your ribs, and it’s a bright blooming light of pain through your system. You shriek, feeling—not hearing— the sickening crack of bone against your leaders steel toes.

“I could gut you right here like a fucking fish. And nobody would bat an eye, you know that? You know you’re nothing. Not even a speck against the side of my boot. Who would miss you?”

He laughs, and despite the sharp stabbing of bone in your lungs, you keep your expression neutral. Yes, of course the shell still lived.

But you were already dead, weren’t you?

And no one to mourn, either. 


	2. I was never cut out for prom queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matt has an eating disorder. Tw for general...bad. This isnt pro anything. If you have an ED please seek help

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Matt has an ED.

You're rail thin. Well. Even saying you were that thin would be a stretch.

You almost feel yourself laugh, but the sensation quickly turns into a gag, sending your knobby legs tumbling towards the trash, letting loose acid into the grocery bag that held the contents of your room.

You're frigid, pale, sparsely freckled knuckles turning white with the way they hold onto the sides for dear life. You're dying, and you couldn't be happier.

95.

That was your goal. Last you'd been able to hobble to the scale, the numbers swam, almost as much as your head swam with nausea and the blackness creeped at your vision.

And it settled on a perfect 94.5

And for a moment, you felt perfect peace. Finally, you could love your body as much as your face.

Finally.

But you looked to the mirror, looking to your sallow cheeks and hollow eyes. And theres a ghost standing in front of you.

Who is that? That's not Matt. Not the soft cheeked, square jawed man your friends knew you as. 

Not the freckle-faced kid with acne scars and just a pinch too much around his waist.

No, no. This was a stranger, and your mind raced to find a name for the face. But as you touched your cheeks you realized what you'd become--a zombie in your own flesh.

And yet it still wasn't enough.

Taking off your own clothes revealed a myriad of flaws.

Your stomach was concave. Ribs pressed against your skin but you felt so hungry. And there was still give.

And give meant there was fat.

And if you were fat, you were ugly, weren't you?

And nobody would love you this way.

You spent the evening despondent. Shaking. Frail. Holed up in the same purple hooded sweatshirt and green jacket that hid your deteriorating frame.

But it couldn't shield you from the light forever. And you did always love the spotlight, yes?

\---

Dinner is silent. Your friends haven't said a word, and yet, you can feel the weight of every single thing they want to say to you.

Every god damn awful word.

You simply stare down at your plate, hunger pains having long since faded to a dull ache years ago. Food became the enemy the day you turned thirteen, and even now, the thought of putting anything in your mouth made you want to scream.

Maybe you just would. Maybe it would pull the demons out of your head.

Your nails, flaking with black polish, pick at what Edd has prepared for the night.

And then something breaks.

With the way it shatters, you nearly think its yourself, and you flinch, sending your whole body into a fit of aches, before you look up to see Edd standing above a pile of broken china.

Tom and Tord are immediately at his side, and some sick part of you envies him. Envies his sorrow.

Until he opens his mouth.

"Matt. I think you need help."

The phrase hits you, nearly literally, like a sack of rocks. Wrapping your arms around yourself, you look away, feeling just how thin you'd grown beneath your shirt.

"I don't know what youre talking about, Edd." You huff, feigning annoyance. But you can feel it all crashing down around you.

And you chance a look up at the three of them.

And where you expect malice, contempt, you find pity. And that makes you recoil in disgust.

But you look up again. There's fear, and some other emotion you can't quite name, but...there is also concern.

You let your guard down.

"Matt. I'm not stupid." There's a strain to Edd's voice that hadn't been there before, and you can feel the lump growing in your own throat, worse than any chunk of food that could ever have choked you.

"I...i know you haven't eaten. For a really long time. And. I didnt take it seriously but im fucking scared." He shakes, and then, shatters.

Shuddering, weeping, Tom and Tord have to hold him up, and his cries hurt worse than any heart palpitation or chest pain you've felt since you dropped below 120.

"I don't want you to fucking die, Matt."


	3. Dog Teeth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pat has unresolved sexual trauma. Part 1. Might make this into a seperate fic if I find the energy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tw for reactions founded in sexual assault

He touches your thigh and all you can hear is static.

The prickly numbness that spreads from his hands, through your pelvis and chest, shooting straight up into your brain.

Your body goes lax, but your ears are ringing.

You hardly hear his question:

"Pat? Pat are you okay?" 

He pauses, taking his calloused hand away from your slender thighs--pale and soft despite the myriad of scars that lined them.

"...'m fine." You manage, after a second. The ringing had turned to buzzing, and at the lack if contact, the feeling began to return to your bones, shame bubbling through the acid in your stomach.

"You looked like you were scared." He frowns. He's always frowning. Usually because of something Tord did. But almost never around you.

Seeing him frown because of you makes you sick to your stomach.

"No, I...I'm fine." You breathe, but you feel your arms shake as you pull yourself into an upright position.

"We don't have to do anything, seriously. Especially if you're not ready. Really."

You stare at him, lost and upset and sick to your stomach. You want nothing more than to be in his arms, to let him do with you what you know he wants, has wanted to do, since the day you two met.

"Patty, seriously." The frown lessens, less of a stab and more of a prick at your heart, and you feel the bees in your ears again as he pulls you close.

You gasp, everything fading to a pinpoint as you push, shove, let out the tears as you collapse to the tile floor, catching his cheek with your untrimmed nails.

He lets out a shout, but he's immediately crawled to be near you on the floor, keeping his distance.

"Shit--I'm sorry, I didn't mean to upset you." 

From your ball on the floor, you look up, chest aching with an emotion you won't quite let yourself feel, and see the crimson running down his cheek, catching in his stubble rather than meeting the ruby fabric of his favorite work jumper.

"You're bleeding." It's a statement, not an apology, and you know you're going to make yourself pay for this later.

Why are you like this?


	4. Border in My Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patryck deals with his sexual trauma in a mildly unconventional way. Mostly his stream of consciousness.

You can still hear the bees buzzing in your ears a week later, and when his arms wrap around your waist you can't bring yourself to claw him away.

It's a sickness, crawling deep within the pit of your stomach. Shredding your lungs, it tries to heave itself from your throat and out of your mouth most nights.

You haven't been able to hold down anything in days. It worries him, you can see it in those deep brown eyes you've always loved.

You love him. You know you do. But why does it have to hurt so much? Why, when his tender fingers hold you, do you flicker between two worlds? One calm pool, love and joy and softness.

The other a raging sea of pure hatred, needles in your flesh and hot metal in your veins. You're almost good for nothing. But you know this.

You know sex. You know the motions, the "pleasure" as they call it, a rolling tide of nauseous heat that brings you to the white light. Tossing, toiling, broiling in the sun until, until, until…

So why not him? You've fucked everything. Fucked your way through life, through people, through pain and lust and regret.

But when a passion burns and concerns not only for himself but even you alone, you hold that light, you burn in it. You can't face it.

It feels too holy, too unreal, like hes making some mistake, you ARE the mistake.

But he could never…

"Paul." You croak, voice soft from disuse, your shaking hand covering his worn one.

He flinches from his sleep, letting out a quiet, but attentive "hmmm…?" 

"I love you."

"I love you too."


	5. Sawed Off Shotgun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> uhhh cw for suicidal ideation ig. drinking.

Why did he ever let him in?

Was it the promise of an old flame? A rekindling of desire?

Or was it the fact that nostalgia was a dirty fucking liar? A proverbial whore whose claws sunk deep into his flesh and tore through his tendons until he couldn’t even bring himself to drag his body, hand by bloodied hand, from the corpse of his past?

Edd hated being sober. 

All of this was preventable, wasn’t it? That’s what they meant by saying hindsight is 20/20. But this future was missing one eye and one arm, so it couldn’t have been that easy to see, could it? Fuck. 

Sinking back into his chair, Edd closed the blinds, twisting the white stick attached to the top of the window with practiced ease. The room was dim once again, but the blue light from the streetlamp still poured through the pale panels of his blinds, causing his migraine to pang in his skull, like his brain was slamming against his temples.

Spinning around, disregarding the creak of the office chair, he pulled a bottle of scotch from inside of his desk, popping a few pills from a bottle of painkillers into his mouth and washing it down with the swill and a grimace of disgust. 

Sure, it wasn’t healthy. But who the fuck actually coped past the age of 21 anyway? Life was ugly. It had always been. Sometimes it just took cracking that pretty porcelain shell just to see it. 

Sometimes that shell had silver eyes and pale hair and told stupid jokes about zombie pirates and hot girls. Sometimes the one that breaks it is the shell itself. 

Was Edd just stupid? Was he blind? Surely there had to have been some kind of sign, right? Some kind of signal, that his friend had been a fucking sociopath. That he’d kill everyone, or at least try to. If Tom hadn’t been there, they’d have been dead. And now he was working for that bastard.

How was Tord able to sink his claws into every person he knew, and make it feel like it was their fault when he kicked them when they were down?

Reading over his reports in the fading light of the lamp on his desk, he drank away his frustration, until he woke with a start at sunrise, face pressed against his papers as drool puddled on the smeared pen-ink beneath his face.

The pounding in his head had returned.

Edd wanted to put it out with a bullet at this point.

**Author's Note:**

> Short sour and to the point.


End file.
